THE BLOOD OF AN ENGLISHMAN

McClure's new South African case for Lieut. Tromp Kramer and Zulu Sgt. Zondi is full of his usual strengths--dust-real atmosphere, ironic dialogue, splendid spot-characterization--but this time the mystery itself doesn't measure up; and the hardworking subplots nearly overwhelm the story as they stretch out the proceedings to undue length. ""Bonzo"" Hookham, an English widower visiting his snobby sister and brother-in-law, is found shot dead in a car-trunk, his body apparently crushed by superhuman force. Could this death connect with the recent attempted shooting of shady local antique dealer Bradshaw, who claims that his assailant was a giant? Indeed the bullets match up--and Kramer, despite skepticism from his boss, begins developing elaborate theories, especially when it appears that both men were in the RAF. But all these notions fall apart with a third un-related shooting, and shaky Kramer is off the case (time out for an affair with unappealing Tish). . . till a clue involving Bradshaw's slimy son brings on a series of final showdowns. The longdelayed solution is a drably predictable one, however. And along the way McClure's red herrings and other digressions sometimes become confusing, overdone (grisly comedy at the mortuary), or self-indulgent. Still, much of the texturing is as good as ever (especially a scene in which Zondi buys an atlas for his children, putting on a dumb-black act in the store); the locales jump off the page (putting Michener's The Covenant, above, to shame); and the subtle tensions between South Africa's Anglos and Afrikaners emerge vividly. Uneven but often rewarding work, then, stronger on dark side effects than detection-from a writer who lately seems a hit cranky and uncomfortable with the restrictions of the police-procedural format.